The Case of the Ex-Boyfriend
by dauntlesszemrys
Summary: Sherlock has the unpleasant experience of seeing an ex-boyfriend, with whom there is a deep and hurtful history. How will John react details of their relationship? Can John save Sherlock from the vicious ex-boyfriend Victor Trevor? Or will Sherlock be pushed past the breaking point? Warning! Abuse and Non-Con references.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock swooshed around the dead body strung up in the office building; a law firm. His coat circled around his long legs with a decidedly dramatic flair. John giggled at the sight of Sherlock, eyes wide and mind buzzing with excitement, ticking like a well-oiled clock. Lestrade greeted them at the start of the crime scene and waved the ecstatic man towards the victim.

"Obviously it wasn't a suicide; he couldn't have tied that knot so perfectly by himself. We are probably looking for a man with a history of naval service, maybe a dock worker near the Thames judging by the scent and type of the-" Sherlock stopped midsentence, not that it was totally unusual, given his mind and the way it produced facts faster than lightning. "Shit," he breathed out. John and Lestrade's heads whipped to face the paling detective. John's eyebrow shot up into his hairline and looked around.

"Sherlock?" the DI asked, walking forward in a timid manner. Neither believed such an inelegant and frankly pedestrian word would come out of Holmes' pretty carved lips.

"Judging, um, judging by the rope. Come along John, we're done here." The maddening detective spun swiftly on his heel and sped away to the exit, taking long strides. His skeletal digits wrapped themselves around John's tan wrists, dragging the soldier behind him. John pulled backwards against the detective's strong hold.

"Sher-Sherlock what the hell are you doing? Sherlock let go of me you daft git and tell me what's going on," John finally managed to rip his arm away from the death grip and spun Sherlock around. The man's face resembled that of an animal trapped in a cage with no way out. He stared hard at John, trying to send him mental messages. _John please can we just go I need to get out of here. _John turned his head the slightest bit to the left. _What are you talking about why do we need to leave? _

"Lock! Fancy seeing you again baby I thought the day would never come! When did you get back and why didn't you call? Come on babe I missed you," a man said behind John. Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a long breath, clenching his delicious jawline. John turned just as Sherlock opened his eyes and pushed John out of the way, not in a rude way but rather in a protective way. "Talk to me honey," he taunted.

The man was roughly 6'2" with deep auburn hair that sat, perfectly styled, atop his strong carved face with a light dusting of stubble at his jaw. He had cold silver eyes that offered no remorse and gazed upon the world with an air of vanity and arrogance. He looked every inch the type of posh bastard John hated. The man sneered and bared straight white teeth that belonged in a Colgate advert. Sherlock grimaced and walked towards the brunette standing near the rest of the yard team. He stuck a hand out towards the detective and Sherlock pointedly ignored the gesture.

"Victor how are you?" Sherlock said distastefully. Victor laughed and flashed a smile.

"You and I both know I don't need to give you the answer to that question," the brunette replied.

"Living off your father's fortune, just settled a high profile divorce case, and quite the eligible bachelor. Doing well then, as it seems." Sherlock observed quietly.

"Oh you know it baby," Victor goaded, chuckling to himself, like someone had said something utterly amusing.

"Don't call me baby. I do not belong to you!" Sherlock snapped, squaring off to this odd man, anger dominating his graceful features. John watched as Victor leaned into Sherlock's private space and matched the other man's body language. The doctor spared a glance at Lestrade, thoroughly confused with Donovan and Anderson flanking behind him, also confused.

"Mm you don't belong to me anymore, but you did once baby. Did you miss me as much as I missed you? Must've been lonely something awful," Victor said into Sherlock's ear, circling him like a predator.

"Not a bit," Sherlock hissed in pure venomous anger. Victor landed full circle back to his place and closed the space between the two men, playing with the lapel of the consulting detective's heavy coat. John, who was at this point ignored, clenched his fist at their close proximities. He felt jealous. No one touched Sherlock like that. John wanted to growl mine while pulling Sherlock away by the waist.

"That's too bad. Are these colleagues of yours? Solving crimes are you darling?" Sherlock tensed at the man's touch and pushed him away half-heartedly.

"Fuck off," Sherlock muttered through his teeth, glaring venomously at Victor who had quickly recovered his lost ground and grabbed a hold of Sherlock's blue scarf.

"But I want to fuck you instead. Surely you didn't find someone else to fill my place. Well, you didn't find someone adequate at least." Victor remarked, staring at John over the detective's shoulder like a bug to get rid of. John straightened his stance and narrowed his eyes at the brunette.

"You son of a bitch you leave him out of this," Sherlock asserted violently. Victor smiled evilly and gripped a handful of curls, pulling Sherlock into a kiss. The kiss was aggressive and Victor clearly had the upper hand, pressing into Sherlock harder with bruising force. Sherlock frantically fought away. He caught Victor by the shoulder, shoving with all his power, and then brought the same hand across his face, leaving an angry red mark. Victor touched his jaw and chuckled. John was beginning to hate that sound.

"You always did like the kinky stuff Lock," Victor said with a hint of hidden anger. He curled a finger around Sherlock's cheekbone. Sherlock jerked away as if burned.

"Don't you dare touch me you utter fucking prick!" He angrily spat, shaking like a leaf. Victor held both hands up to mock the other man and Sherlock stormed away, avoiding John and opening the door to the stairs. The door banged back against the white walls and the detective was gone.

"Well I would say that could have been a little more successful. I'm off gentlemen; do give Scotland Yard my love. Be sure to solve this nice and quick, yes? Ta," Victor blew a kiss to John and stalked away with all the confidence in the world. The air cleared of a distinct tension that the man brought and the group collectively let out a breath.

"What the hell just happened? Someone help me makes heads or tails out of whatever that was!" Donovan said at last, throwing her hands up in defeat. John just shrugged his shoulders and Anderson shook his head in disgust.

"Pansy," Anderson muttered under his breath.

"Watch your mouth Anderson," Lestrade reprimanded. Donovan and Anderson both scuttled off and John joined the DI. "I honestly can't make sense of it. Has Sherlock ever mentioned, I don't know, having a boyfriend, a girlfriend, his sexuality even?" John shook his head no. "Are you two shagging then?" He lowered his voice and raised both eyebrows expectantly.

"I- No we're just- I'm not- No we aren't shagging." John concluded finally.

"You want to though. I may not be Sherlock bloody Holmes, but I don't have to be to see that you clearly weren't happy when that Victor bloke got close to him." Lestrade said. John rubbed his eyes and groaned. Had he been obvious? Yes, he admittedly wanted to nail Sherlock Holmes into the wall and shag him senseless but Sherlock himself had said he was married to his work and didn't do people.

"Yeah ok then fine I want him, you happy now you bloody arse," John said, only half kidding. He nodded a goodbye and caught a cab to Baker Street, hoping that Sherlock hadn't done anything stupid. John found himself wondering what the history was between Victor and his Sherlock. Obviously they had dated at one point. Did one of them cheat or did they part on bad terms? How long had they known each other? Why did Sherlock seem afraid of Victor? All these questions ran through John's mind on repeat, haunting him. The cab stopped and John threw a few notes at the driver, distracted by the scene. He tried to think like Sherlock and over analyze everything, but he only wound up with a headache and no answers.

"Sherlock?" John called out into the flat, closing the door behind him. Mrs. Hudson walked out of her flat and bustled over to John.

"Oh John he seemed so upset when he came in! He didn't say a word to me; he just marched right upstairs and slammed the door. Did you two have a little domestic?" She wrung her delicate hands together and John pat her on the shoulder.

"No Mrs. Hudson we're fine. He ran into someone today and it didn't end well. Mrs. Hudson do you know a man named Victor? Has Sherlock ever mentioned him? He's about Sherlock's height with brown hair and grey eyes." John said, shifting from foot to foot. Mrs. Hudson gave a pained look and shook her head.

"I'm sorry dear I don't remember him. I'll tell you if I can think of anyone! You go cheer him up now love, I have to put my bins out," She smiled and hobbled over to her door and shut it soundly. John mounted the stairs two at a time and called for Sherlock again. He was answered by the violin and a head of raven curls turned towards the window. John knew better than to press the issue so he settled into his chair and picked up the paper to wait for the storm to wither.


	2. Chapter 2

John's eyes drooped with the violin beat and eventually he fell asleep in his chair, the dangerously calm music comforting him. His mind's eye took him back to the meeting with Victor. But this time John stormed forward and protected Sherlock from him. Sherlock then turned into an otter and Victor became a pit bull. John was a hedgehog as far as he gathered, then he danced with otter Sherlock to a sound that sounded vaguely like his ringtone.

He opened his eyes to the blasted light streaming through the window and his phone ringing bloody murder on the coffee table. John groaned and cracked his stiff neck from a night spent in the chair. His shoulder was going to make a bloody nuisance of itself today and he rotated the limb in its socket. The screen was blinking at noon. Fumbling for the thin piece of machinery, he accepted the call and pressed it to his ear.

"Hullo?" he murmured tiredly, running a hand over his eyes.

"John, its Greg; I just- you need to get Sherlock over here. You're gonna want to see this." Lestrade jabbered into the phone, his voice strained.

"Yeah ok I'll get him. On our way," John muttered, hanging up and pocketing the phone. "Sherlock, Scotland Yard needs you're massive intellect!" John called through the flat in the general direction of Sherlock's bedroom. There was a bang, followed by the sound of a door opening and the sight of a mad consulting detective dashing towards the staircase, shrugging on his coat. "Alright no need to seem over eager," John miffed sarcastically. Sherlock ignored it and hailed a taxi with his right arm, a cab immediately pulling up next to them.

"Bloody super powers," John grumbled. The drive was spent in silence, Sherlock looked pensive, staring at the back of the cabbie's head, then the window and back to the cabbie. The cab was barely at a halt when Sherlock flew out and left john to pay. "Here," John said, pushing the notes into the cabbie's open palm and followed Sherlock through the building and up to the homicide division. Lestrade was waiting for them outside the door when they arrived, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. He noticed Sherlock and paled, looking the man up and down suspiciously.

"What?" Sherlock snapped irritably at the poor DI, a little more forceful than necessary.

"I don't know what to make of it. I mean it's just absolutely insane," Lestrade said.

"Oh for gods sakes," Sherlock barked, moving the silver haired man aside and opening both doors at once.

Every flat surface of the entire homicide division was plastered with pictures. Any cubicle space, door, wall, and window the vandal could get their hands on; they posted pictures of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock tied to a bed, Sherlock in leathers, and Sherlock with a ball in his mouth and a strip of fabric over his eyes seemed to be the criminal's favorites. There were others featuring a Sherlock with whip marks on his pale back and in all manner of positions, very much nude. Each picture featured a dog collar around the detective's slender neck with a blurred out nametag. The 2D Sherlock's stared into the camera at the Sherlock of the 3D world, who stood completely stock still. His shoulders went up and down with heavy breaths; in, out, in, out.

Anderson and Donovan were standing in the corner, obviously gossiping with each other. Anderson noted Sherlock's presence first and shivered; a look of disgust on his face. Donovan eyed the detective up and down; striding over to him in that pair of awful brown heels no one had the bravery to talk her out of.

"It looks like the freak has a fetish for being degraded. Dear lord how many times have you gotten off on our insults? Oi John! Is this the reason why you manage to live with him? I wonder if he calls you master or daddy," Donovan said. Sherlock looked to be on the verge of actual homicide and John glared at her with all of his might behind the detective. Donovan, being a human of average intelligence, backed off before she got killed and walked to leave through the doors.

"I can't sit at my desk until it's cleaned off. There is a great big Sherlock mid-O face plastered on the front and I can't stare at the thing for another second." She told Lestrade and made her exit. Sherlock was still seemingly glued to his spot and John timidly reached out a hand to pat Sherlock on the shoulder.

"Sherlock come on let's," John began, hoping to lead the detective away. The man burst into movement and spun around. "Sherlock?" John asked quietly.

"Get rid of this Lestrade; all of it. Make absolutely certain this is ash by tomorrow." Sherlock said as he walked in the direction Donovan had taken.

"Where are you going?" Greg shouted after the strung out detective.

"To see an old friend," Sherlock said, briskly walking out to the street. John and Greg looked at each other in a facial language all their own. As much as John and Sherlock understood each other more than anyone else, John and Greg also had a profound bond. They shared something monstrous and life changing in common. They shared Sherlock Holmes in common, as insufferable as he is, they loved him regardless.

"We gonna follow him then?" Greg asked only a few seconds after Sherlock had stormed out the door.

"Yes, yes we are. Do you think he meant that Victor bloke by "old friend"?" John said, putting air quotes around old friend.

They chased down the wool coated figure to the street and into a cab. Lestrade pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and got into a black Nissan Rogue S.

"Well bloody well get in we haven't got all day," Lestrade told John, who hopped into the car and swiftly shut the door as Greg started the engine and got them moving.

"I think," Lestrade started, answering John's previous question. "That we have to think like Sherlock Holmes to figure out the man himself." He concluded. John pursed his lips in thought. It made sense.

"Hang on, this isn't your car is it?" John said, noticing that Greg didn't have a bear key chain on his key ring, nor did he drive a Nissan Rogue.

"Sherlock isn't the only one who knows how to pick pocket people when they get annoying. Besides, I'm sure Donovan won't mind." Greg said, smiling mischievously. John laughed behind his hand and shook his head.

"Oh dear god she'll kill us." He said through his laughter. "Ok then, on with this thing. How in the hell do we follow him without his knowledge? He is Sherlock bloody Holmes after all." John hated stating the obvious, but it had to be brought up.

"Right. Hope for a crowd and be as inconspicuous as possible. With any luck, he could be distracted and put his skills at ignoring us to good use." Greg said, focusing on the cab quite a few cars ahead of them. John nodded once and noticed the cab pull off to the side in front of a high end club building as it seemed.

"There he's getting out," John pointed out. Greg nodded and they pulled into an alley between two buildings, waiting until Sherlock was inside the doors before getting out.

"Keep your head down," Lestrade said, more to himself than John, as he stepped out of the parked car and closed the door. John did the same and they walked to the door.

The air inside the club was heavy with cigar smoke and the lights were dimmed, to disillusion the person inside. The obvious design was to prevent people from telling what time of day it was outside. Men in expensive tailored suits sat around booths and tables, talking with each other over glasses of amber liquid. A few turned to look at Greg and John, scoffing at their appearances and dismissing them as minor annoyances. It wasn't difficult to find a dark corner for the two men to settle into. From their advantage point, they saw Sherlock sitting down at a table with Victor, directly across from them. They could hear the conversation well enough to make out the words somewhat clearly.

"That was quite the trick you pulled Trevor. Cute, I might say." Sherlock said calmly.

"Yeah well I thought it would get your attention darling. Why the last name hun? Just call me Vic; like you used to," Victor said, biting into the cucumber that had been floating in his drink.

"Cut the shit Victor. What the hell do you want from me? Clearly you're not here for just a friendly chat," Sherlock said disdainfully.

"No I'm not. What I said at the scene, it was true. I want you back baby. I've been desperate and lonely without you. How long has it been love; 6 years? You were so helpless back then, just a young adolescent boy, running from home and into my arms." Victor Trevor taunted over his drink, laying a hand over Sherlock's.

"I wasn't thinking clearly and I needed more. I never ran into your arms, don't flatter yourself. What we had, it was unimportant. I used you for substances and you used me for sex. We never had a proper relationship. It NEVER happened." Sherlock bit out, blissfully unaware of his shocked audience.

"Come on baby don't be like that. You liked it and you know it. You've never shagged anyone else, have you? Admit it." Victor smiled at Sherlock's telling grimace.

"You know what? I can offer you a deal. If I don't get what I want Sherlock, I'll take from you. Ah see you already know what I can take. Come to dinner with me tonight at 7, and I'll take that as a yes. Fail to show up and you know what will happen. Can you tell me what will happen Sherlock? I want to hear it from your own beautiful lips," He leaned forward over the table and ran a finger along the seam of Sherlock's plump mouth.

"You'll… Yes I'll go to dinner with you." Sherlock said at last, making Victor pull away and tracing his chin as he sat back.

"Good boy. Off you pop then. Remember Sherlock, I'm not a patient man," Victor said standing as Sherlock stood. "Not patient at all. I want you and I always get what I want," he said, pulling Sherlock to him by the hip and mouthing kisses along the other man's strong pale jaw. Sherlock whimpered and Victor pulled away. They parted ways and Victor ended up walking out a side entrance.

"My god," Lestrade said finally, alerting John that he wasn't, in fact, alone and watching a scene from a movie. It was surreal in the worst possible way. "This just a domestic tiff anymore, it's a full on war. This cannot be happening. I really wish I hadn't seen that." Lestrade muttered. John could only nod. What were the stakes at which Sherlock had said yes? What was Victor Trevor going to do that could hurt Sherlock that much; something that he would agree to something like a date with this man?

"We should go. We need to go," John said being the only words he was capable of saying. John thought about Sherlock while Lestrade drove him to 221b Baker Street and dropped him off. John thought about Sherlock as he sat down on the edge of his bed and tore off his socks and shoes. John thought about Sherlock when the man silently got ready in his best suit and nicest wine colored shirt, then walked out the door with one look at John; an emotion plastered there that the good doctor couldn't identify. John thought about Sherlock while he laid face up in his bed, waiting for Sherlock to come home. John thought about Sherlock and came to the conclusion that he really REALLY hated Sherlock's ex-boyfriend.


	3. AN 1

**A/N: Ok so next chapter is going to be from Sherlock's POV during the date, during which John is not present (can't have John spying on Sherlock all the time!) I'm putting a trigger warning here right now for references to rape, non-con, abuse, and drug references so if you're sensitive to any of that please stop reading. I really don't want to offend anyone! That's it lovelies see you soon! **

**-Z. Emrys**


	4. Chapter 3

Sherlock's hands shook as he buttoned up the wine colored shirt. He formed a fist and shook it once to stop the involuntary impulse of fear. Do it for John, Sherlock thought while shrugging on the black blazer. Sweet John, who would never leave him. Loving John, the man who believed in him even when the rest of the world held doubt. Loyal John, the man who had shot the cabbie on that first night barely knowing Sherlock. He spared a look at the doctor, incredibly engrossed in the novel on his lap, completely unaware of Sherlock's current predicament.

"Where are you going?" John asked him, not looking up. Sherlock swallowed once, twice at the lump in his throat.

"Out. Goodnight John," Sherlock said, carefully monitoring his voice for any cracks. He watched John as he walked to the front door of Baker Street, still burying his nose in his book. He looked so peaceful and calm and so perfectly JOHN. "_Soldier, loyal, electric blade, tea drinker, no girlfriend for the better part of 6 months, called sister two nights ago and still worrying, handsome, workout regimen, self-conscious of weight gain around the middle (not that there is any), fresh shirt, old toothbrush needs a new one, nightmare last night but not as intense_." A soldier covered by a layer of softness and domesticity. Sensing someone was staring at him, John gazed upwards and quirked one eyebrow.

"Everything alright?" He asked with a little smile. Sherlock forced himself to smile back and nodded his head slightly.

"Of course John," Sherlock said, his emotions gathering in the pit of his stomach like a steel ball. He left before John could ask any more questions, knowing he would be caught out. Sherlock watched as a great big black town car drove up to the sidewalk and the door opened with Victor Trevor sitting inside, dressed immaculately in a navy Armani suit with a light blue tie and black dress shoes. "_Violent tendencies, deals cocaine, functioning alcoholic, no pets, Botox injections on a bi-weekly basis, significant muscle buildup, takes testosterone, dyes hair roots, suit tailored once, no, twice, expensive watch bought to make an impression of power while abroad to Japan_."

"I knew you'd come around love," Victor purred as Sherlock furled his long spindly limbs to fit inside the car. He elected to say nothing, knowing it was his best bet not to arouse Victor's abominable temper. So he simply nodded and stared out the window, wishing Victor would move away from his immediate side.

"I thought maybe we could take a little drive to my place after dinner. Of course, you'll be saying yes to that. I almost forgot how beautiful you're profile was. Those cheekbones really are to die for," The brunette said, laying an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. They stopped at a high end restaurant, the name of which Sherlock hardly recognized so it couldn't have been more than 6 months old at the most.

The two men exited the confines of the vehicle with all the grace and elegance of a jaguar. Victor placed a hand on Sherlock's waist and led him to the door; almost as if he was afraid the other man would run off.

"Reservations for Trevor," Victor told the host, who immediately led them to a dark corner which was relatively private and unlikely to be disturbed. Victor waved the insufferable host away "_Expectant father, once divorced, has two cats, coffee drinker, regular razor blade, addiction to gambling specifically the scratch off lottery tickets, messy eater, ex-smoker_."

"You know, this little deal could work very nicely. I still have your collar. You remember? The one you got when you were being naughty. You never did learn did you?" Victor said in a hushed tone, not eager to be overheard. Sherlock stared straight at him and grimaced.

"Now now darling no need to spoil a pretty face with a bad look." Victor said. "Tell me about Dr. Watson. Oh don't be surprised I know his name. I researched you and I got the good doctor's blog as well. So why keep someone so simple minded around to entertain you?" Sherlock swallowed down his anger. No one called John simple minded because he most certainly wasn't. John was never boring, like a puzzle Sherlock couldn't, and didn't, want to unlock.

"He is not simple minded! He's my friend," Sherlock said, smiling at the memories of John.

"Friend? Sherlock you don't have friends! I was, and still am, your only friend. Don't make the sentimental mistake that anyone else cares about you but me," Victor said sympathetically, cupping Sherlock's jaw.

That should have been Sherlock's warning. The emotions welling up in Sherlock's chest, fear and dejection, should have made Sherlock's brilliant mind throw up bright red flares. He believed Victor's words, knowing he was right. Sherlock Holmes the great consulting detective didn't have friends. They all hated him. He unconsciously leaned into the large tanned hand on his face, closing his eyes.

"There there my little Lock. I care about you and I always have. Don't you see what we could have been together? What we can be now that you're in my arms again?" He said tenderly. Sherlock couldn't help but want Victor to take him from reality again. It was easier back then, wasn't it? After all, he had deserved those beatings. The boundaries in his mind palace fell, letting Victor in. Victor pulled away and Sherlock looked up at him in fear. Was he leaving? "Shh darling I'm right here," Victor said with a smile.

They ate their meal in relative silence. The only noises made between them were the scrape of forks against plates and Victor occasionally reminding Sherlock not to eat too much because he didn't want to gain any unnecessary weight. Victor picked up the tab and after that was finished, pulled Sherlock from his chair and placed his arm around the man's waist to lead him out of the restaurant. They reached the car where Victor pulled open the passenger door and lowered Sherlock in, only getting in right after and ordering the driver to his penthouse.

_**Sherlock, when are you getting home? –JW**_

Sherlock looked at the text and tightened his lips. Maybe John cared about him. After all, one only sent texts of concern to those that they cared for on a platonic or romantic level.

"He's trying to control you little Lock, leave it be. Give the phone to me," He ordered and Sherlock reluctantly handed it over. Victor pocketed the device and stared out the window again, the situation taken care of. The phone buzzed in Victor's pocket but Sherlock made no move to reach for it or to ask for it back.

The car pulled up in front of a tall building and Victor led the way through the maze of doors to his personal elevator and up to the penthouse which overlooked the lights on the Thames. Victor came up behind Sherlock on the terrace and stroked his sides, laying his head on the man's shoulder.

"It's beautiful, but not nearly as beautiful as you my love," Victor whispered into the detective's ear. "_lunar position- midnight, John texted four times by count so he might be worrying- most likely because he owes it to Mycroft to make sure I'm safe." _Sherlock turned and pushed weakly at Victor to let him stand fully.

"Victor I have to leave," Sherlock said, pushing his way past and trying to escape.

"I don't think so Lock. Didn't I make it clear that you were to spend the night with me?" He caught Sherlock's thin pale wrist and gripped tight, making Sherlock's eyes water. Violently, Sherlock was dragged through the penthouse and up to the bedroom. "You are mine and I want to claim you as such. I'm so glad I kept this collar. Then again, you've always hated sentiment haven't you?" Victor said, pulling the leather collar out of his bedside table and buckling it around Sherlock's neck, the course texture causing awful friction at the delicate skin of Sherlock's neck.

His open palm collided with the side of Sherlock's head, disorienting him and making his eyesight fuzzy. Rough hands stripped him of his clothing and rough rope tied around his body and arms, preventing movement. Sherlock could only whimper into the pillow his face had been pushed into while Victor fulfilled his needs above him. He called Sherlock names and hit him all over, possibly bruising his ribs. When Victor hit the precipice, he latched onto Sherlock's shoulder and bit down hair, blood rising to the surface. He groaned as he pulled out and lay on his side, immediately going to sleep.

Sherlock wriggled around until the rough ropes loosened and slipped out of the bed. He put on his clothing piece by piece, examining the ripped black pants and deciding to go without them, pulling on his trousers. He recovered the phone from a pile of clothing and checked the messages:

_**Sherlock are you okay?-JW **_

_**Answer me would you-JW**_

_**Sherlock! **_

_**Sherlock pick up your phone!**_

_**Sod this, whatever don't text back that's okay**_

__Frowning, he pocketed the phone and snuck out of the flat. He called a taxi and slipped out of the cold air into the warmth of the vehicle. It was 5 in the morning. His own bed was never such a welcome sight as he gently lowered his abused transport down onto the dark sheets and passed out fully clothed, not bothering to check on John. The nightmares gave no mercy.


	5. Chapter 4

John constantly checked his phone, hoping maybe Sherlock would answer him, give him his side of the story. He texted over and over again with no response and by then it had gotten well past midnight. John threw his phone onto the coffee table with more force than necessary and rubbed his eyes.

"Sod this I'm off to bed," John said to no one in particular, staring at the door for a good minute and a half before giving up hope. Sherlock was a big boy he could take care of himself. That thought didn't stop John's worries when he finally closed his eyes at around 4:15. Before he fell asleep, John prayed to God. He hardly ever prayed, not being a particularly religious man. The last time he had prayed, it was in Afghanistan.

"Dear God, please protect the man I love. Lord help me I love him," He looked up at the ceiling and sighed, tucking himself under his white covers and closing his eyes on the darkness.

Sunlight bounced off his face like tiny kaleidoscopes of light and John groaned, pulling himself from bed to check the time; 9:30. Rubbing his face, he stood on bare feet and walked down the stairs to the kitchen expecting Sherlock to be at the table performing some ungodly experiment, except he wasn't. There was no evidence of Sherlock anywhere, save for the opened bedroom door. Hesitantly, John wandered into the opened bedroom.

The room was nothing like what John expected, having never been in the other man's bedroom. The furniture was a deep oak and the walls were the same unbearable 70's wallpaper the rest of the flat was equipped with. The windows were covered by dark blackish navy curtains, the same color as the sheets. The only thing mildly sherlockian was the large bookcase and the framed periodic table over top of the desk. John looked over at the bed to find Sherlock passed out on top of it, face down and half out of his shirt.

He should have left it be, but the mysterious red mark on Sherlock's shoulder begged to be found and healed. John crept forward and leaned down to examine him while he was sleeping. There was a bruise on Sherlock's cheekbone on the upturned side. The red mark on Sherlock's shoulder was covered in dried blood with teeth prints clear in the flesh, purple and red bruising surrounding it. Curious fingers pulled Sherlock's shirt off gingerly, careful not to wake him. Rope burn surrounded his elbows and waist, along with various bruises caused by a blunt object. John covered his mouth with his hand and tried, desperately fighting, not to scream at Sherlock. How could he let someone do this to him? How could he not tell John or at least text him?

A groan from Sherlock made John's heart leap in his chest. Sherlock might be angry that John had looked at him while he was sleeping. He scrambled back and out of the door up to his room. He closed it quietly and sat down on the edge of his bed to collect his thoughts neatly. The more he thought, the more jumbled the words were, so he wrote it down on a yellow notepad.

Sherlock has been hit repeatedly

Sherlock doesn't want me to know who it is

I know who it is (Victor Trevor)

Victor is holding something over Sherlock that I don't know

Sherlock didn't come home till late

John gazed at the list over and over again. The facts were clear, but John still didn't have the vital piece of the puzzle. What could Victor Trevor possibly do to Sherlock that was so horrible? It wasn't the first time John had worried about his flat mate and best friend, and certainly it wouldn't be the last. This time, though, it seemed so different. John didn't just worry about Sherlock, he feared for him. He feared that this time, maybe the worry wouldn't be enough and Sherlock would end up dead. The simple thought of Sherlock's body lying out on a cold stone slab made John's stomach turn and tears spring to his eyes. He wanted, no, he NEEDED to know what was going on. Sherlock was going to tell him what the stakes were, even if he had to force the man.

He dressed quickly, determined to face this right now before the situation got out of control. The questions he wanted to ask were also added to the little notepad in awful scrawl.

Who is Victor Trevor exactly?

What is he holding over you?

What happened last night?

I love you. Do you love me?

John wanted to ask the last question more than he wanted to have the answers to the first three. If he knew Sherlock loved him back, could they forget about Victor Trevor and the rest of the world? With paper in hand, John rounded on the stairs and galloped down before he lost his nerve. Sherlock was sitting in his chair rigidly, plucking the strings of his violin and thinking in his chair, like nothing was going on. John detected the slightest bit of concealer on Sherlock's bruise, hiding it from sight. Living with an alcoholic sister that tried to hide awful bags under her eyes had its perks.

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock asked with thinly veiled concern, pretending to be uninterested. How typical of Sherlock to deflect the situation away from himself.

"I'm fine Sherlock but you aren't. First off, where the hell were you last night?" John said, the words coming out a tad bit more irritated than they should have. He clenched his fist but held his ground.

"I was with someone, why should you care?" Sherlock snapped, plucking the D string a little harder than necessary to punctuate his point.

"Oh I don't know Sherlock because you're my best friend and I actually care about you!" John shouted, angry at the way Sherlock was reacting. It wasn't John's fault Sherlock had stayed out late and not texted him where he was or if he was even still alive.

"No one cares about me because I don't have friends!" Sherlock shouted back, then clenching his eyes together in pain.

"Yeah okay Sherlock, whatever. Sure, the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't have any friends because he can't possibly understand what it's like to care about someone! People always say you have no heart but I never thought I'd actually believe it! I would not be the least bit surprised if you ripped it out of your own chest to experiment with it! I need some air," John yelled, walking to his coat and ripping it down from its hook to storm out of the stuffy living room. His mind clouded with anger and the pad of paper fluttered, forgotten, to the corner of the room. He could have sworn he heard the words "I'm sorry," before he slammed the door and walked into the street, ignoring the tearful stare that followed him from the window.


	6. Chapter 5

John sat in the corner booth of the pub, drumming his fingers on the sticky surface of the bar. He felt guilty, how could he not? Sherlock was beaten and probably scared (not that the massive prick would ever admit it.) Groaning, he hit his head on the wooden surface and wished he could go back in time to stop himself from getting angry. He could still see Sherlock's pained face behind his eyelids.

"Oi, John, you okay?" a voice that sounded ironically like Greg Lestrade called out to him from the bar. He lifted his head and watched the Detective Inspector walk over to his booth and sit down with a beer in his hand.

"What the hell are you doing here?" John asked, refusing to meet the other man's eyes.

"It's Saturday! I always come to watch the game at this pub on Saturday! Why you're here is the better question," Greg said over his large glass, taking a sip slowly.

"I… I yelled at Sherlock and ran out. He never takes good care of himself and it's driving me insane!" John almost yelled, trying not to alert the other patron, quietly enjoying their drinks with the sunlight glinting off the shiny greased up tables.

"Whaddya mean? Did he actually go to see that Victor bloke?" Lestrade asked, eyebrows rising, leaning forward on his elbows.

"Greg you have to swear to me you won't tell him or anyone you know about this! Sherlock didn't even want me knowing and he won't handle it well if the entire yard finds out. If that happens, you might as well sign Anderson and Donovan's death certificates now," John said, also leaning forward, his voice dropping to a low whisper.

"Yeah, yeah swear to god," Lestrade said seriously, impatient to know what John was about to tell him. Secrets about Sherlock Holmes were hard to come by, because no one else knew them but Sherlock Holmes.

"He didn't come home till really late last night; I didn't even hear him come in. So I went to check on him and he…" John swallowed thickly at the image. Greg motioned for him to continue in an expectant manner.

"He what? John what happened?" Greg asked a little louder than necessary.

"Shh! He… he was covered in bruises and cuts and…" Jon began. He leaned forward, his voice dropping even lower.

"And I have reason to believe Victor Trevor may have taken advantage of him," John said all in one breath. Greg stared at him for a moment, completely in shock.

"My god. Now are you absolutely sure? You can't file the crime unless you have substantial evidence," Lestrade said slowly, as if trying to avoid John's inevitable panic.

"I've got all the bloody evidence I need just look at him! For Christ's sake Greg," John spat out, then lowered his voice again. "He has bruises covering his chest and even one on his face." John hissed at last, cooling down and trying not to become hysterical. Luckily, none of the other customers bothered to notice the two men in the corner booth. "Greg please, I need your help. I need to know what's going on and you need to have a witness to file a restraining order or something against Victor Trevor. Sherlock has saved both of us in different ways, it's time we save him before he winds up…" John choked. He couldn't bring himself to say dead. No, Sherlock could never be dead. Not ever. Greg contemplated for a moment, then downed the last dregs of his beer in one smooth chug and dawned his grey coat.

"Let's go. How far is Baker St. from here?" he asked. The cold air hit them in a blast, greeting them on their way out the door from the comfy confines of the pub.

"It's a five minute walk. This way," John gestured to the left and they walked side by side down the sidewalk. However, walking seemed to have a broad definition in the mind of one Dr. John Watson who stormed ahead, taking long strides. Greg timed the walk in between panting breaths, trying to keep up with the shorter man. It took only three minutes of John's brisk battle stride to make it to Baker Street. John fit the key in the lock and shoved forward, letting both he and Lestrade inside without a single word.

"Sherlock?" John called out as they mounted the stairs and reached the landing. The man in question was lying on the sofa, three nicotine patches lining his pale inner left arm that hung loosely at his side, palms facing up.

"Ah John you're ba- why are you back?" Sherlock said, shifting his body weight to sit on the edge of the couch.

"I'm back because I have questions that need to be answered by you. First of all where were you last night and who were you with?" John knew the answers to these questions but asked them anyway, also knowing it was probably a bit not good to tell your flat mate, best friend, and secret crush that you followed him to a private meeting.

"On an outing with an old friend, next question," Sherlock sighed tiredly.

"No Sherlock, not until you answer the first questions. Where were you and who were you with? I need a name and place, Sherlock," John demanded, gripping the back of his chair at the desk.

"Ugh why does it matter?!' Sherlock demanded, his head going into his cupped hands.

"Because it just does! Name and Place,"

"Victor Trevor, we went to dinner." Sherlock answered at last. John sniffed and nodded, taking the answer as good enough for now.

"What happened while you were with him? Why were you out so late if it was just dinner?" John asked a tad more cross than was necessarily intended. Sherlock stood up and paced around the flat, running a hand through his hair.

"John please just leave this alone," Sherlock pleaded. He went for the best puppy dog eyes he could give, hoping John would melt and forget the whole thing. John was a soldier dammit and he never backed down, so it wouldn't work; not this time.

"Sherlock I can't leave this alone, not when I overheard what he said… I followed you when you stormed out the yard yesterday. I know there is something he has over you and I think I know what happened last night. I have deduction skills of my own you know and when I saw the bruises… Sherlock for once in your life tell the goddamn truth. We need to hear what happened so we can help you and get rid of Victor, permanently." John said, quietly getting closer to Sherlock and wishing with every bone in his body that he could gallop forward, close the two feet of distance between them and hold onto the infuriating man with all of his strength.

Sherlock's jaw clenched and he gave John a hardened gaze, coming to the conclusion that his previous tactic had not worked all too well.

"You followed me? So now you're just another spy, someone who wants to control me? Why would you even care?"

"Control you? Where did that come from? I followed you because I actually care about you!" John said angrily, feeling his temper slip from his grasp, like metal from slick oily fingers.

"No one cares about me John Don't waste your time!" Sherlock retorted, his own anger mounting. Sherlock was getting John to rise to the bait, to get him off topic and it had worked.

"I will waste my time on you because I care about you!"

"Why?"

"Because I love you, you utter bastard! But no, Mr. Sociopath over here wouldn't understand love or caring would he?" John snapped. Sherlock moved to walk out of the room, heading for the door.

"Sherlock why don't you ever listen to me!" John shouted his hand shooting up involuntarily to block the detective's exit.

The next few seconds happened in slow motion. The sound of flesh hitting flesh reverberated off the walls and was followed by a cry of surprise. The looming shape of Sherlock crumpled in front of John. He clutched his cheek and icy blue eyes met the doctor's tawny blues, calling out for help when the entire world was scary. John stared at the tanned flesh of his hands, coming to terms with what he had just done.

"Oh my god what have I done? Sherlock that was an accident, I never intended to hit you I-" John began, edging down to Sherlock's level, reaching for him. He bleated out in terror, shuffling backwards until his back hit the coffee table leg. John pulled the offered limb away and turned around to face Lestrade, guilt forming a lump in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't bear to look at the man on the floor, never scared of anything and never daunted in the face of a challenge, clearly terrified for his life. Mrs. Hudson was now in the doorway pointing down the stairs at three very large very serious looking men.

"Mr. Holmes, you are to come with us immediately. Mr. Trevor is not pleased with you," the biggest said, pointing one over to Sherlock on the floor.

"I won't. I can't…" Sherlock said, writhing in its grip attempting escape. John's legs moved before his brain registered it and he plied the beef's arms away from his Sherlock.

"He said no! I do believe no means no," John stated. Sherlock's eyes shone with appreciation and love. John could have cried with relief. He didn't need to ask Sherlock if he loved him because it was so obvious. Sherlock loved, still loves, John.

"Boris," the speaker said. The remaining man cocked a gun and put it to John's temple. Sherlock paled deathly white. Lestrade was patting his clothes for a badge or a gun and tried to stop the series of events ending with the walls of 221b getting a new red paint job. The speaker, however, was quick to catch on and put his forearm at the detective's throat and shoved him into the wall; not hard enough to choke but enough to incapacitate.

"Don't shoot I'll go with you! Don't… shoot… I'll go," Sherlock said, trying his best to leave with dignity, tears still making their trails down his face. He put his hands up in surrender and the gun was put away, forearms went down to sides.

"Oh boys enough of that, are you really that stupid? This is a Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard! Are you fucking morons?" Victor said viciously calm. He whipped his nails, very long for a man, over the speaker's face, drawing blood from three definitive scratch marks. The man stumbled back, hand flying to gruff cheek.

"I won't be so nice next time you fuck up! Now DI Lestrade is it? I am just as much a law man as you are with double the amount of power; do not attempt to put me in prison." Trevor smiled, reminding John of a snake.

"Now Lock, are you ready to come home? I was very disappointed in you when I woke to an empty bed. Come along," Victor gripped Sherlock hard around the arm and pulled him from the room and out the door, not giving him enough time to say goodbye or to even grab his coat. It appeared that he was about to protest, but one of Victor's lackeys put his hand on the gun and Sherlock sharply snapped his head forward. John watched the other men leave and heard tire cars peel away quickly. He stared at the empty doorway for a long time, Lestrade gripping his neck and looking completely lost. John's phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Sherlock, trying to say goodbye. The end of the message was screwed up, as if there was a struggle before it was sent. John couldn't bear to think about how that struggle had probably played out.

**I love you John- SHHHHHHHHHHHH**


	7. Chapter 6

Greg wasted no time the next day in calling Scotland Yard to inform them of the rescue plan they spent all night planning. John swallowed down his anger like a large wooden ball lodged in his throat. The brief room was filled with officers, John and Greg standing at the front. The soldier had chosen his outfit meticulously, perhaps scaring some of the junior officers just a tad. His shirt was black, as was his coat, the collar flipped up. He hadn't bothered to comb his hair flat, the product of which was to let it fly in wild directions. He grimly stared over the room.

"Right so this is supposed to be a simple rescue and arrest. This man," Greg said, pointing with one finger to a picture of Victor Trevor. "Victor Trevor has taken Sherlock Holmes under duress and against his will. We have specific knowledge that Mr. Trevor has beaten and abused Sherlock, so we may need an ambulance on standby. Trevor is hostile and potentially lethal. You are to arrest Trevor and detain him in any way necessary, then retrieve Sherlock." He finished. At the mention of Sherlock's name, heads turned and voices chattered to their neighbors. Donovan's lips curled in disgust and John wondered how much trouble he would be in if he wiped that sorry scowl right off her mug.

"Get into the cars, we have five minutes before departure," Lestrade dismissed. Donovan took the opportunity to stand casually and saunter over to the DI, putting on his overcoat quickly.

"Are you being serious or is it April fool's day? You're serious. We're rescuing freak! He'll probably complain about getting rescued then call us all morons! He's never grateful so why bother!" She sputtered, throwing her hands up into the air. Yeah, John decided, he could rip her a new one with a clear conscience. He stepped forward menacingly, the rational part of his brain abandoning him.

"Jesus John calm down," Lestrade caught him right before he could take a swing and held him around the waist away from Sally, watching the scene with a newfound fear. The corners of John's lips twitched upwards and he righted himself, standing straighter.

"Watch what you say about him you pompous brat!" John warned her. Her answer was a roll of the eyes and to stalk through the door to do as directed. Lestrade said nothing, leading the way down to the car park and getting in on the driver's side of his shiny silver car. John played with the handle of his Browning the entire car ride, itching for traffic to move just a little bit faster.

The building where Trevor lived was extremely tall and appeared extremely posh. John led the way; Lestrade flashed his badge to let the small team walk through the lobby, past the stunned staff, and up the stairs to the penthouse at the top. John turned off the safety and cocked his gun menacingly. For once, Greg didn't protest the possession of weapons in a civilian; though it wasn't as if John qualified as an ordinary civilian anyway.

"Scotland Yard, open the door or we will be forced to break it down! Lestrade shouted, banging his closed fist against the wood of the door. After a few beatings, the door opened and Lestrade stumbled a bit, his fist going straight through air.

"Alright, no need to shout," Victor said, appearing in the doorway. It was early, so he was still in grey sleeping bottoms. His perfect chest was bare, and the muscles rippled with every movement. Lestrade pushed him backwards and pointed his team around the luxurious penthouse in groups. John took measured steps to a corner, watching for exit possibilities.

"Mr. Trevor, you are under arrest for kidnapping and domestic violence. Now tell us where he is," Lestrade said. Victor put a hand over his chest in fake shock.

"Kidnapping? I haven't kidnapped anyone! Sherlock came with me willingly. Besides, he isn't here," Victor replied smoothly, flashing a toothy grin.

"What? Where is Sherlock?" Lestrade clearly hadn't been prepared for that.

"Oh unexpected plot twist! He isn't here. He left, got up, bon voyage, hasta la vista, sayonara!" the sarcasm oozed out of Victor's lip like a toxic slime. Gradually, the groups made their way back with grim looks on their faces.

"Sir there's nothing here. The flat is completely clean." Sally said dryly. Lestrade scrabbled to get a foothold, his breathing taking up a more brisk tempo. He needed to put a crack in Victor's seamless façade.

"But, but I watched you! You took him! He only said yes because you had a gun to John's temple!" Lestrade sputtered. He pointed a finger at Trevor for lack of something better to do.

"I didn't hold the gun! However, it is fun to see little Lock so afraid isn't it? To see his poor eyes light up, it makes him so alive." Victor sneered to himself, rolling a memory through his mind and laughing, like someone told a funny joke. John snapped and went after Victor, pulling the gun from the waistband of his jeans and flicking the safety off.

"You gigantic bastard! Tell me WHERE HE IS! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH SHERLOCK YOU PRICK?!" John fought against the hands holding him back and removing the gun from his grasp.

"Let me go, I'm going to kill him. I'll only be a little bit, I swear to god. Just let me go so I can kill him," John said, flipping his fist out towards the lawyer, mildly amused by the turn of events.

"John!" Lestrade shouted, roughly pulling John to a straight standing position and shaking him a bit. "relax you aren't getting anywhere! Leave John," He pleaded. John shook off Lestrade's hands on his shoulders, tugged his coat down flat, and stormed out the door with one last menacing glare.

"Well," Victor said, clapping his hands together and rubbing them. "I think that was a lovely visit. However, we must be getting on with the day. Ta gentlemen, fair ladies." He ushered his visitors out and slammed the door.


	8. Chapter 7

Dark surrounded him, the air was dank and the concrete floor was cold. _Basement in a rarely used house, twenty years out of use, built during the cold war. Somewhere in Soho judging by the amount of noise outside, blindfold made of leather, someone is entering. _He shivered at the feeling of the outside air hitting his skin from the door upstairs. Footsteps tramped over his head, heavy and angry. Sherlock tilted his head to his shoulder and rubbed the blindfold between it and his cheek.

"Oh don't do that pet; you'll hurt that pretty skin of yours. I bet you already figured out that I'm not happy." There it was; the voice that plagued his nightmares. He wanted to run from it, flee from its torment. Victor's rough hands stroked his cheekbone just under the seam of the too tight blindfold over a bruise and Sherlock whimpered. At any time, Victor was liable to strike.

"Do you want to know why I'm not happy?" Victor whispered into his ear before pushing away and walking a fair distance across the room.

"No," Sherlock said. Knowing what he said, Sherlock wished he had a better hold on his tongue. Victor sneered derisively. The crack of a whip filled the room and Sherlock's stomach dropped.

"I was hoping you'd say that darling. You've always been so spirited." Victor said, his voice now traveling behind Sherlock. The cuffs around his battered wrists pulled his arms over his head and were hung onto a hook to keep them there. His arse pushed unceremoniously in the air due to the hook's place in the room and the inability to stand except on his knees. Cold hard floor scraped against the flesh over his kneecaps and he shivered from pain and lack of warmth in the room. Pain bloomed over the cheeks of his backside like a tongue of fire and he arched his back, yelling out with a strangled sound. His body tried to escape from the present, his subconscious huddling in the deepest corners of his mind palace. Two more firm strikes and tears were dampening the leather.

"Now, does pet want to know why daddy isn't happy?" Victor said. Sherlock nodded his head up and down violently, another smack of leather against flesh drawing words from his lips.

"Yes, yes, yes!" He screamed out.

"Yes, what?" Victor teased; another whack over old bruises, another scar to count, and another scream.

"Yes daddy. Yes daddy I want to know why you aren't happy. Please, yes," Sherlock rambled, aching from the exertion and shaking violently from the overwhelming pain.

"You're little friends keep asking about you. They came to my flat about three days ago, looking for you. Imagine the looks on their faces when there was no Sherlock to be found. What do you think I should do about their irritating behavior?" Victor asked, trailing the hard handle of the whip down his spine to his cleft.

"I don't know," Sherlock panted, his head hanging in defeat.

"Do you think I should have them killed? Butchered alive right here with no way to see the life leave their eyes?" Sherlock jerked with fear, vivid images of bloodied corpses and blank faces filling his head. He received a smack on his bony lower back for his stress.

"No, no Victor please! Please I'll do anything!" Sherlock cried. The smell of Victor's breath on the back of his neck and traveling to his face was entirely unpleasant and coiled in the pit of the consulting detective's stomach.

"Anything? You'll do anything? What about helping to take the edge off my frustrations?" Victor's fingers probed Sherlock's mouth, helpless to stop the onslaught and knowing it would not end well to bite. Instead, he nodded to the request and the hand pulled away, footsteps clomping once again across the room.

"I think I want to record this little session, just a little remembrance perhaps. Don't get shy on me baby." A small blip filled the silence, then the sound of a belt buckle and articles of clothing hitting the floor after that. The sound of a match being lit by way of scraping it alerted Sherlock of what form of torture would be up first and he thrashed.

The first drop of wax hit the top of his back on one of his shoulder blades and he could practically feel the skin blistering underneath. He shouted and tightened his fists, the nails digging into the flesh of his palm but more wax kept dripping down. The skin rose and puckered, large boils and small ones festered to the surface of his already raw and sliced epidermis.

"I told John how much I loved the excitement in your eyes when we do this. Let's show him what I meant shall we?" Victor's rough hands tore the blindfold away. Bright white light blinded him, making him blink. The camera stood on a trifold in front of the small wooden table that held all of Victor's toys. A single tear slipped down his cheek at the thought of John seeing him like this; at seeing him so weak and fragile and vulnerable. The inky curls gripped painfully in a massive paw, his head surged back to keep him staring at the camera. A penknife was flicked out from behind him and the blade stroked his cheek. "Scream for me baby." The first dig of the knife did it. Sherlock sobbed and blacked out from the pain, no longer capable of making any noise.


	9. Chapter 8

"A week Lestrade! A fucking week and absolutely nothing!" John shouted at the silver haired man. After the fruitless search of Victor's flat, all of John's efforts were pushed towards the one goal of getting Sherlock back. Sherlock had become his world, a shining fallen angel when John couldn't pick himself out of the depths of depression.

Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck and slumped back into his desk chair. Blue moons curved under his eyes from the lack of sleep. His usually tidy work clothes were rumpled from two days' worth of wear. John himself was growing a bit of scruff after neglecting his own health. Styrofoam cups previously filled with liquid energy were scattered all over the desk and the floor. A white board was sitting to the side with pictures and notes taped to it and written on it. They tried all of Victor's places of habit, anywhere he owned. They searched through every nook and cranny of the city that Victor had some part in and so far there was nothing. Mostly, they encountered Victor's team and their lack of a warrant to search. It seemed that every time they got closer, details fell through the floor and they were transported all the way back to square one. Frustrated beyond belief, they were at a stalemate.

"I know John but we can't do anything without a search warrant! It's our word against his and with no additional witnesses other than Sherlock himself, we are gonna be run into the ground." Lestrade said painfully, wishing he didn't have to be the bearer of bad news.

"That's not damn good enough!" John said, slamming his fist onto the table and stood from his provided chair at the corner, pacing in front of the glass wall.

"You have to DO something! Greg we both know Sherlock could be very much hurt and he has probably given up hope that we are even looking for him. I can't live with myself and remember the last time I saw him when I…" John covered his eyes with his hand and repressed a wave of sobs and tears. The blurry tears didn't block out the image of Sherlock scared to death that burned his eyelids. He couldn't sleep or eat, every fiber of his being was focused on finding his Sherlock and bringing the mad genius back home; safe in his arms. There was a bit of yelling outside and a dirty looking teenager crashed through the door. John's eyes hardened and he squared his jaw.

"Hey hey! Woah! Listen kid, get back to your parole officer. You aren't supposed to be in here!" Lestrade sat up and tried to push the kid out.

"Oi 'ands off me mate, I ain't no druggie no more. I'm 'ere to talk to the doc! I work for 'olmes!" the kid said desperately, pushing back against Lestrade's forceful shoving. John muddled through the teen's thick accent to understand that he meant Sherlock.

"Wait! Greg wait let him stay! What do you have to say about Sherlock?" John desperately turned the kid around by his shoulders and ushered him inside again.

"I been 'earing a few fings on tha street. I 'eard from a fella in Soho that 'e saw some rich ponce walkin outta one of tha shops. Tha weird fing is, 'e 'ad some purple 'andkerchief in 'is back pocket. Me mate walks up to 'im and says, "what you got there chum?" Tha clever dick smiles and 'e says, "A souvenir!" Then 'e takes the stuff outta 'is pocket 'e does and rubs at it, smilin' like a bloody fuckin' cock! Me friend tells me it was a piece of one a Mr. 'olmes' shirts! 'olmes raised the chap offa tha streets so 'e'd recognize it! That's all I knows." The kid stops his long winded speech and John decodes all of it.

"Which shop! Which one?" John demands, shaking the kid a bit more forceful than necessary.

"I don't 'avva clue! Me friend, 'e lives in Soho! You can meet 'im at some weird club. Says it's called tha Butterfly Club. Sounds pre'y fruity ta me but you can try! 'is name is Britton Jones. Tell 'im Bones sent ya and 'e'll come round." He said, startled at the fear in John's eyes.

"Kid, Bones, you're going to be set for the rest of your life, I swear to that. Greg, grab your coat. We're going. NOW!" John yelled, pushing past the teen and rushing down the hall, strutting like a madman who found a bomb. Greg ran after the shorter man and pulled his coat over his arms haphazardly as they went, taking the stairs instead of the lift. By the time they reached the car, Greg was huffing and puffing for breath, realizing he wasn't as young as he once was.

The car came to life and they pulled into traffic, headed straight for the shady sex district of London. "Can't this damn thing go any faster?" John demanded, looking out the window at the darkening sky, the sun dipping behind grey clouds.

"Trying," Greg grit his teeth, throwing the car's manual and depressing the gas pedal as much as he was able without hitting someone's bumper. John, to distract himself, fiddled with his gun, making sure it was working properly. He imagined putting a bullet straight through Victor Trevor's forehead, right in between the eyes. It wasn't like the movies, one hit and you go flying backwards in a gush of blood; as a doctor he knew that. Still, it was nice to imagine the bastard's limp body exploding into a million pieces, splattering against a wall. The smile that crept onto his face was evil and malicious, worthy of a crocodile in the amazon.

They managed to reach the district without a motor accident on the way, and the DI parked it inconspicuously beside the curb. They climbed out into the crisp evening air and walked down the cobblestones. Hordes of young people in crass clothing and shouting crass words rushed down the street past them with their friends, enjoying their happy ignorant lives.

It wasn't the first time since Sherlock was kidnapped that John wondered how the world, and everyone in it, was still spinning the right way with such a force of magnetism as Sherlock Holmes in it. Sherlock was his light at the end of the tunnel; the weight that kept him sane in suburban hell. It was true, he was addicted to action. He loved the adrenaline pumping through his veins and the sensation of utter calm at the eye of the storm. Sherlock was his storm. How could the world be whole without him illuminating his surroundings with his passion, brilliance, and determination?

A teen girl, probably only seventeen, stumbled past him, catching his shoulder and unbalancing him a bit.

"Oi, wanktard, watch where you're going!" she shouted angrily, words slurred by drink and most likely some form of illegal substance. John contemplated saying something in return, but went with a different choice of words in the end.

"Where is the Butterfly Club? My friend and I are a tad lost," he said, drawing Greg to his side by his elbow.

"It's about two blocks down. Sorry about Liz, she's nutters!" another girl in their group answered for Liz. Liz hit the other girl over the head and she yelped, grimacing.

"Thanks," John said, dragging Greg behind him to the other side of the street and heading straight down past the millions of neon lights, looking for their designation.

"There!" Greg said, stopping them in front of a dark black building with a purple, blue, and pink sign that did indeed have a butterfly in the logo. The line was forever long, and John looked at Lestrade expectantly, indicating towards a less than honest way to get in. Lestrade nodded and without hesitation, strode to the front of the line, holding his badge in the air at eye level.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, we need entrance to your facility." Greg told the guard at the door. The hulking man seemed kind enough, and he let them past the doors into the club.

Music pounded through the club like a heartbeat, bringing the place to life. Sweaty bodies writhed together and cliques of people laughed and yelled over large drinks. John wondered over to the bar and tapped on it twice to get the bartender's attention. he was around the age of twenty with heavily tanned skin and deep brown eyes. Tattoos ran up and down his arms to his neck. Working a rag in a glass, he methodically cleaned while sauntering over to the army doctor. He clicked his heels together and raised an eyebrow.

"What can I get you boys?" he asked sarcastically.

"It's not what, but who. Do you know a Britton Jones?" John asked, all business. The man opened his arms wide and bowed theatrically.

"One and the same! What do ya need mate? Can't say I've ever met you before," he said comically.

"I need to know everything you saw, everything you know about Sherlock's whereabouts." John got straight to the point and the bartender's face dropped sullenly, betraying bags under his eyes and hollow anger behind the dark irises.

"I think I have a more appropriate place to talk about this that isn't in the open air," Britton said, indicating for them to follow. He led them behind a silk curtain through a hallway and opened an employee lounge. They settled inside the average sized break room and he closed the door behind him, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"Bones sent us. We need to know the name of the shop, and a witness statement from you." John said, trying to get the guy to talk.

"Holmes basically raised me. He was about twenty when I turned 9. He found me shivering on a bench in a park, starving and smoking a fag just to keep warm. I'd been sick with pneumonia for three weeks up until then. He took me with him to Baker Street, didn't say a word or anything. He taught me my letters and basic levels in maths and sciences. I got better, stronger even. When I turned 11 he put me in a good school and told me to study hard, that he'd be there if I needed anything. He's done that for so many of us, you know? We all look up to him, he's our hero. People get it wrong about him. He's not a sociopath or anything like that. He's a saving angel, sent to protect the weak. He may not know what it's like to be loved, but he sure knows how to love. I'd do anything for him, he saved my life." Britton choked a bit as he spoke, a few tears falling to his cheeks. John rubbed his face and tried to keep from smiling. Sherlock would have despised being called a hero, but it was the most honest word said about the consulting detective.

"The place, the shop I saw, it's a dingy place, real creepy too. It's in the worst part of this area. It doesn't have a name, but I can take you there. This is a bad time of night, but I don't care. I figure there won't be much problem with two fellas like you." He said, checking his watch. There was another door off to their side and Britton shrugged on a leather jacket. Then he pushed the door out into an alleyway.

No one said a word as they turned and twisted down alleys and roads till they arrived in a dim lit street, newspaper and rubbish littered the street and the cobblestones glistened with old rain. A gaggle of women in too much makeup and smelling of sour booze and cheap perfume leaned up against a wall, seductively pulling their skirts up a bit too high and cat calling for a few dollars. The three men ignored them and Britton gave them not even a second glance as he stopped off to the side of an old green shop, the window display illuminated by a few red neon signs and a frankly garish woman sat behind the desk, flipping through a magazine and popping gum in her too wide mouth. Her eyes were narrow, and her nose was too skinny for her gaunt face. Her hair was drawn up in pigtails at the top of her head and dip dyed many different colors. Underneath her cheap clothing, her spine was bent forward. Britton nodded to them and took two steps back.

"This is as far as I go. If you need anything, give me a call. Here," The boy gave John a slip of paper with a mobile number on it, then turned and ran back the way they came, disappearing into the darkness. He placed the slip of paper in his pocket and took a deep breath.

"I'm coming Sherlock,"


	10. Chapter 9

The shop reeked of damp moldy leather and Greg pretended not to be bothered by the smell, but the crinkle of his nose said otherwise. John put on a smile and walked up to the counter, tapping a rhythm on the glass with his fingertips. The girl snapped her gum and gazed up, disinterested.

"What?" she asked rather rudely. John cleared his throat and pulled Greg to his side, reaching in the other man's coat pocket for his badge.

"We're going to take a look around," John said, holding up the badge. The girl straightened up with actual fear in her eyes. He observed closely as her eyes darted to the floor down to her right. The disgusting red rug that covered a majority of the wood floor in the shop ended about a foot away from the wall. Tossing the badge to Lestrade, he didn't wait for an answer to his demand and peeled back the heavy carpet. The butt of his gun dug uncomfortably into his stomach where it was tucked into the waistband of his jeans.

"You can't do this!" She screeched, running around in a blind panic. John ignored her and groped around the wood paneling for the handle to a door in the floor. His fingers clasped around it and he pulled it up with all of his strength. The door swung toward him with ease and he let it fall to the ground with an angry thud. It was dark and dank in the hole at his feet and cold air whooshed up to hit him. Hefting his gun from his trousers, he held the weapon in front of him and walked down the old rickety steps with caution. The stairs squeaked and groaned about his weight. Lestrade followed behind, holding his phone to his ear in one hand and a torch that wasn't switched on in the other. John indicated for Lestrade to turn on the torch. The light blinked to life in the darkness, illuminating the corridor like room they had landed in. At the end of the concrete hallway, a hole in the wall bounced shadows onto the adjacent brick.

"Sherlock? Sherlock are you down here?" John called, hesitant to walk forward in case of imminent danger to Lestrade or himself. Someone moaned in pain and all rational thought left his brain with a rush of blood to his heart. The army doctor charged down the hall and into the brick room.

There was Sherlock, but it wasn't John's Sherlock. He lay in the corner of the room, body curled in on itself and head resting on the wall. A collar circled his neck and that was all he had on his body. Ribs stuck out and bruises littered his pale expanse of skin. His hair was matted and dirty, some of it looked thinner than the rest, indicating someone had ripped the hair out in that particular spot. He had cuts and lacerations all over his arms and shoulders. The most notable of his wounds, however, was the carving in his back, like someone had gotten the sick idea to use Sherlock as a human canvas. The word freak stretched between his delicate shoulder blades.

He turned his head, apparently aware that there were people watching him. His stormy ice blue-grey eyes landed immediately on John. His face was beaten and tired, and he let out a sob, closing his eyes on the stream of tears escaping to his cheeks.

"Lestrade give me your fucking coat, mine's too short. Greg, NOW!" John yelled, spurring the detective in motion. The volume of his voice made Sherlock flinch and cover himself more, which immediately made John feel terrible. He got on his knees and approached Sherlock carefully, cautious not to scare him.

"Hey Sherlock. Sherlock, it's John; it's me…" he whispered, undoing the latch on the collar and letting it fall away from his neck. The skin was rubbed raw and bloody, some blisters had formed over his adam's apple. Greg lowered the coat down between the two men and John supported Sherlock on his shoulder while wrapping the consulting detective in it just enough to cover his nudity.

"Greg I'm gonna have to lift him, he's obviously dehydrated and he'll collapse if he stands." John warns. He shifted his weight back onto the balls of his feet and lifted the detective's malnourished body with him, cradling the man like a child. Sherlock continued to cry behind closed eyelids, letting out not so much as a whimper of a sound.

"Leave me John. He'll kill you. Leave me… leave me," Sherlock rasped against John's strong chest.

"I will never leave you again. I'm going to protect you from that monster. I swear to god Sherlock I am so sorry. I love you… good god I love you so much." John whispered, laying a kiss to the forehead of the man in his arms once again.

"Lead Greg. He needs to get to a hospital." John ordered Greg, who quickly picked up the gun and the torch and led their way out of the hellhole back to the surface. The woman, who had previously been panicking, was holding a handgun directed at them.

"You can't take him. That's master's favorite pet, and he would be quite cross to find you've abducted him." The girl sneered, gazing at Sherlock, who had his eyes trained on her. She jumped out and made a scary face and Sherlock yelped, hiding his face in John's jacket.

"You bitch!" Greg said, rushing forward and wrestling the gun away from her. She pulled the trigger and the bullet imbedded itself in the floor. Sherlock was screaming now, terrified but still too weak to squirm. John held him tight and hummed soothing sounds in his ear as Greg hit the girl over the head with the butt of John's gun.

"Go!" Greg said, opening the door. They ran as fast as they were able to, not wanting to scare Sherlock any more than necessary.

"Where the fuck is my goddamn backup Donovan! I need fucking backup in Soho, NOW!" Greg screamed into his phone as they ran around the corner into a more lighted part of the district. Husbands pulled wives away from the scene they were definitely making. Women put their hands to their mouths in shock. A met car pulled in, followed by two more and an ambulance. Donovan scrambled out of her car as soon as she parked and visually paled. She looked like she was about to vomit.

"I need help! Oh my god Greg I can't feel him breathing. Oh jesus, Sherlock! Stay with me! Help, now! I need a gurney!" John yelled at the poor EMT's who quickly jumped into action. They pulled out the stretcher for Sherlock and John gently laid him on top of it, careful not to disturb his cover of modesty. One, two, three, he pressed down on Sherlock's chest to get him to breath.

"Breathe. Please breathe," John pleaded. He pinched Sherlock's nose together and placed his lips to the other man's pumping his own air into the lungs, desperate. Sherlock took a faint breath in and John could have screamed with hope.

"Sir, we need to get him to the A&E. Sir, you can't come with us." The team placed Sherlock in the back and closed the doors. John panicked. He needed to stay with Sherlock. No one else could be trusted with him; Sherlock was too precious.

"I'm a doctor, I can help. Please, I need to be with him. I need to stay near Sherlock. He's my goddamn fiancé!" John screeched, seeing that his protests were getting him nowhere. Sherlock was screaming his lungs out when they shut the doors on the vehicle.

"He's scared, he needs me!" John growled, fighting against the EMT's holding him back from slinging open the back doors to the ambulance that was already on the move.

"Then you can meet him at the hospital sir. He will be treated and cared for well," a male nurse said. John felt Greg's hands on his shoulders and John gave up, watching the flashing lights and hearing the wailing alarm fade into the distance. Greg took him towards the police car they had driven over to Soho and he had him sit on the passenger seat with his legs out side of the car. Donovan walked over ashen faced.

"Sir, is Holmes alright?" she asked, unsure and unsteady.

"What the hell does it look like Sally? Of course he's not alright! Did you fucking see him? A week; we let him be abused and raped and beaten for a week and you honestly think he'll be just fine?" Greg questioned her sarcastically. For once, she was incapable of a retort. She just glared at the floor and made her way back to the crew of officers standing around.

"John, I'll get you to the hospital, and then I'm going to find enough evidence to convict Trevor and arrest the sorry bastard." Greg said. John just nodded and folded himself into the vehicle. Greg shut the door on the passenger side and got into the driver's seat, then started for St. Bart's hospital.


End file.
